Les Abercrombie

Oh boy, do we have a teenager in the house! She’s healthy, sexy and full of energy and joie de vivre.

No tiny teenager this!

Like all teenagers, Jorgi assesses a situation and then devises ways of manipulating everyone involved to do her bidding. The other morning the neighbours must have thought the Abercrombie household had finally lost it: there was a six month Dobermann haring round and round the garden with a slipper in her mouth being followed in hot pursuit by a pyjama-clad, single-slippered 60 year old.  The smile on Jorgi’s face was filled with as much pleasure as the scowl of ire on mine .

Spotty has always been given a bacon bone to gnaw after supper in the evening so, feeling bad about Jorgi having nothing but a childish spider ball to play with, I decided to offer her a bacon bone. She wolfed it out of my hand, manipulated it around her mouth and proceeded to swallow it whole.  I was devastated, imagining all sorts of horrific visits to the vet and expensive operations; but it’s almost week and there’s no sign of any bone so one can only imagine that it went the route of  the mounds of dog biscuits she inhales twice daily.

Also, like all teenagers Jorgi is full of bravado and independence until she’s faced by the unknown.  I had taken her and Spot out walking the other morning in the hopes that Spot would teach Jorgi some of his streetwise tricks.  It was a fiasco: When charged down by one of the hunting dogs up the road, Spot took refuge under Jorgi’s belly (Streetwise Spot leaving Jorgi  ingenuously facing real danger.)  This left me to beat off the enemy with my kierie. We were then approached by a Jorgi Unknown, in the form of a front end loader. Twenty kilos of boisterous bravado was immediately converted into 20kg of shivering puppyness praying for invisibility behind its protector.

And I thought people owned Dobermanns for protection?

The miniature Yorki's view

Jorgi went for her first puppy training on Saturday. There were only two pups as the others had more pressing engagements. There was Jorgi and a miniature Yorki called Ed.

First on the agenda was ‘socialization’.  Ed ended up cowering and whimpering in a corner with Jorgi running at him convinced no doubt that this was her latest toy.  Socialization ended with two puddles on the floor; one from excitement and the other from sheer terror.

We then practiced ‘separation anxiety’. Here Jorgi excelled. Full of confidence, she didn’t miss me at all and was far more interested in the toy rack. I was delighted. She’s one very clever puppy having already realised that the only way to survive our household is to do your own thing and get on with life. Poor Ed, on the other hand, has to be put in a safe box for 5-10 minutes a day to find his feet and get used to himself.

This week’s homework has been practicing the name command and ‘Sit!’ When there aren’t too many distractions and a grumpy uncle in tow, we are fairly successful. The way to her head is definitely through her stomach though: she will do just about anything for a Dogee Snack or bowl of dry-looking biscuits.

And who said anything about being a ‘puppy’ anyway? She gained 3kg last week and I am convinced that she’s at least another 2kg heavier this week already.

Spot on Prozac

Spotty was hauled off to the vet this morning for  physical and psychological assessment.  Physical to determine if his recent grumpy, snarling, snappy self was due to to any pain or illness; which apparently it isn’t.  This means that it’s all in his head and that his nose is seriously out of joint and he is deeply hurt by, in his mind, being replaced by Jorgi.

“Well, either I get Prozac or he does,” the amused family vet was told.  Spot won. He now sports a ‘calming collar’ infused with lavender and chamomile plus he has natural herb anti-anxiety pills to take twice daily.

Do the herbs work?  Well, so far Spot is still snapping and growling but at least he’s no longer puffing himself up like a blaasop fish and spending hours standing guard over his empty food bowl.

Young Jorgi, of course, couldn’t care less. While we were out she spent the morning digging up all Spot’s smelly old bones which she’s hidden under the cushion in her basket. Perhaps she plans on using them as bartering  tools in any future peace negotiations?

Jorgi on the beach

Having an infant in the house is stressful, but try a Doberman puppy.

Her name is Jorgi. She seems to inhale very expensive puppy-pellets by the kilo and grows taller with every glance.  Unfortunately maturity has little to do with size in puppyland and, when you’re teething you chew things – ANYthing! We have a disintegrated feather duster at the bottom of the garden and various bits of cardboard and wood strewn about the house, all in various stages of chew.

But, when Jorgi misjudges the step and slithers nose-down across the veranda or when, bless her, she manages to pee on the grass; all is forgiven and she is kissed and squeezed and cooed over as any gagga gogo would do to a new grandchild.

Her grand-uncle Spot is however unimpressed, growling and snapping at this long-legged cane rat who simply wants to play.

Our dog has the ignominious  name of Spot. Not our choice but that of the monks at the monastery where we found him.  Spot was apparently too boisterous for the sweet, old guys.  Forewarned should have been forearmed, but he was so ‘cute’, how could we resist?

Spot has been part of our household for almost 10 years. He is by far the most arrogant, grumpy and independent long-legged, wooly Jack Russel in the neighbourhood. He growls and snaps for no reason and believes that Rottweilers are fair game, although he does prefer them to be behind their own gate.

Once neutered, Spot’s bark went up a few decibels. Add to this a face with a prominently overshot jaw and a butt with an arrogant swing and you have Gay Rights performing at the gate for every passing canine.  Fortunately most of them doggedly ignore Spot’s antics although there is a wise old Staffie who can’t resist coming up to the gate and ticking him off by saying: ‘Spotty is a girl’s name!’  You can imagine Spot’s reaction to this gender insult.

Spot has always been protected from over-reaching himself by his life-long companion, Kelly, a border collie/alsatian mix. Two years his senior she died at Christmas. Spot’s grief was tangible and his endeavours to take over her duties of protection and companionship are endearing. When taken for walks Kelly always took the outside with Spot dashing about on the inside behaving like the local Town Crier barking at everything in his high-pitched voice. However, at the first sign of danger he would duck under Kelly’s belly and disappear within the folds of her hair. Sassy perhaps, but brave? No.

Initially, after Christmas, the daily walk was a quiet and sad affair for both of us but Spot’s irrepressible arrogance can’t be dampened for long and soon he was giving even greater voice to all the village dogs. From his tone you can almost tell whether it’s friendly advice, the latest news from the beach or from across the valley; or simply bad tempered  insults being  thrown at the local competition. He has also discovered that at certain gates it’s best to keep schtum and pad quietly past if you don’t want to be devoured by African hunting dogs.

Labouring up the hill the other morning Spot and I were greeted with a huge smile by a burly road worker who said: ‘What a beautiful dog you have. He’s like a policeman, checking every day that everyone is okay and doing their work properly.’

Well, Spot, you’re many things to many people, beautiful is questionable, but going down in history as the local Bobby on the Beat must so far be your greatest accolade.

Have you noticed that the older you get the fewer friends you have? In my mid-forties I lost friends to the ravages of cancer and emigration and in my 50′s I discovered that I simply lacked the energy and inclination to deal with demanding, high-maintenance friendships. Now, as I give 60 the nod, I find myself sharing a small mannikin’s nest with interesting, favourite people of all ages who cause my heart to smile and my soul to sigh with contentment.

Is it solely maturity that brings a true understanding of that much used and abused phrase less is more or a life stage resulting from circumstance? Some people happily drift through life never accumulating stuff whereas others collect and horde every flying duck they can find. Remember the adage about coming into the world with nothing and leaving it the same way? It’s true, so what is the point of materialism and greed, the stress of high-level networking and false friendships? Rather Keep It Simple Silly – you’ll be happier and live longer.